


forever's come and gone

by someonelsesheart



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Lexa is Alive, Post-Thirteen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 16:43:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6159988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someonelsesheart/pseuds/someonelsesheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She finally lets herself look at Lexa. There’s that – that stupid adoring look on Lexa’s face, like a year and a half hasn’t dulled the love she feels for Clarke, and that’s. It’s almost too much. Lexa looks beautiful under the moonlight, so regal even without her commander gear. Her eyes are soft and her mouth is pulled up in a small smile. </p><p>A tear escapes from Clarke’s eye, and she aches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	forever's come and gone

**Author's Note:**

> this is honestly the most self-satisfying thing i have ever written in my life. i am so far in denial and i don't even care. so here it is - the fix-it fic you probably never wanted.

In the end it’s hollowness and the taste of blood on her tongue. It’s the way Clarke kisses Lexa with an open mouth, with all those promises welling up inside her. It’s the way this is the end: something she never thought would come, not even as Lexa went off to fight Roan.

She’s felt this before, when she plunged a dagger into Finn’s gut, but this feels so much worse. Because this is the love that people write about, this is days of drawings and comfortable silences and the small smile around Lexa’s mouth, this is the _Not yet,_ and the _One day_ and the end of the fucking world, it feels like the end of her whole entire world.

She tastes the blood in her mouth and wishes it was her own. She wants to press her fingers once more to the tattoos along Lexa’s back. She wants to know that everything will turn out fine.

Nothing is ever going to be fine.

She realises that the second she realises she needs to leave.

*

Polis is one of the most beautiful places Clarke has ever seen.

And it’s not even the masterful buildings, the beautiful clothes. It’s the way the people _belong_ here, just like she’s never belonged anywhere. Clarke belongs to the sky – to the stories it tells in its stars, to the empty oxygen in lonely lungs, to the horrible feeling of plummeting to the ground.

Clarke has never belonged anywhere, except maybe where Lexa is.

Except now Lexa is dead, dead, _dead;_ she’s pale-faced and blue-lipped; she has a cut in the back of her neck and a mouth full of blood. She’s dead, and maybe it’s Clarke’s fault – just like Mount Weather, just like Finn, just like every last person she’s ever loved. Maybe it’s Clarke’s fault, and _God,_ but that’s like a fresh wound beneath her ribcage, the guilt, the grief.

She stares out the window at Polis, thriving in its glory, not even knowing its esteemed Commander is dead yet.

She looks back at Murphy – small, weak and terrified; the way he keeps glancing back at her - and the locked doors. She strides over to them and kicks. They don’t budge. Murphy eyes her like one might eye a wild beast. She grabs a hard metal pot from a cabinet and smashes it against the door. Something cracks. She kicks the door again, again, and again; an entire piece of the door cracks and falls away.

She stands in the hole she’s created, panting.

“You’re a little terrifying, you know,” says Murphy. She ignores him. She has to go. She has to leave.

And so she does. She leaves Polis, her people, her entire life behind. She leaves them all to die.

*

The first night she spends alone in the woods, just far enough from Polis that she’s slightly safer. She’s not sure if they’ll kill her if they find her – certainly, she doesn’t think that Titus will obey Lexa’s last wishes. Even if they don’t kill her, though, she doesn’t want to find out what they’ll do to her.

She can’t stop thinking about Lexa’s dead eyes staring back at her. She can’t stop thinking about the curves of Lexa’s body, the press of her lips, the love in her eyes. _Love._ Because that’s what it always amounted to, didn’t it. Love.

It’s the end of the fucking world, and this girl with an entire army at her disposal almost says she loves you, and it’s the worst thing ever, it’s so fucking terrible.

Because this isn’t just the end – this is the beginning, the middle, everything. Because when Finn died, Clarke became a stronger person. But when Lexa died, Clarke stopped being a person at all.

She walks for days and miles until her feet are bloody and she’s filthy. She hunts, lights small fires to cook her prey, and never stays in one place for long. They’re probably not even looking for her – Wanheda, their once prized possession.

Perhaps she really is the Commander of Death. Perhaps Lexa was doomed from the moment they kissed.

*

On the Ark Clarke thought she was in love every few days – she kissed boys and girls; on one memorable account fucked her two-week girlfriend; and it all hurt but in the way that a papercut does. You know it’ll go away. This isn’t going to go away.

She feels like she’s lost a limb; the ache is there, always. It never goes away, even when she’s sleeping.

Her dreams are full of _Maybe one day_ and _That’s why I lo-_ and the look in Lexa’s eyes when Clarke said she wants her. _Life should be about more than just surviving,_ and Lexa didn’t fucking survive. If Lexa had died in that fight, if she’d died on the battlefield, Clarke would be devastated but she’d _understand._ It would be something she could comprehend. This isn’t anything she can comprehend.

The Sky People and the Grounders could be at war, but Clarke is far enough out that she doesn’t even come across any clans, just small frightened animals and endless plains of dirt.

Of course she’s surprised when she comes across people, because she didn’t even know there _were_ people out here.

She’s spent so long in the isolated tract of land where they are, with the Sky People, the Trikru, with Polis, that she forgot there are _others_. The language they speak is nothing that Clarke knows, but they welcome her into their house with cautious eyes but warm smiles.

It’s just the two of them, she finds out. The elderly mother and her son, who must be around his mid-twenties. The mother speaks some English, tells Clarke about their lives in tidbits. Her name is Catherine; her son’s name is Pierce. They know about the clans but avoid the contact, prefer to live out here in isolation.

She stays with them longer than she should.

They know that there is a sadness in Clarke, that it covers everything she touches, but they do not ask. They skate gracefully around the subject like it’s her business, her life, and it’s so refreshing Clarke wants to cry.

“Everybody has terrible secret,” says Catherine in broken English. She touches Clarke’s face, lifts her chin with a finger. “All have lost.”

Clarke has an arsenal of terrible secrets, and each one involves a loss. Perhaps she should tally them up, all the lives she’s taken, like if she quantifies it maybe it will make it hurt less.

It snows a lot near the end of winter, and Clarke spends a lot of time sketching. She still has her book with her sketch of Lexa, asleep on the seat. It’s got tear marks on it now. She tries to draw Lexa again, from memory, but she always messes something up.

Sometimes she goes out with Pierce to hunt, something Clarke has always excelled at. Now, it’s her only way of letting out the pent-up emotions – not on the animals but in her body, as she sprints through the forest; the burn of her lungs and the way her muscles scream.

One day they walk down to the lake to wash, and there’s something in the contentedness of the day, the warmth of the sun. She fucks him lazily on the grass, and her mind goes blank and there’s nothing but the pleasure, the cool water, his lips against her throat.

She leaves the next morning. She tells them goodbye with a heavy heart, and they give her water and food for her journeys. It won’t last forever, but it’s – well, it’s something. And the gesture nearly makes her cry again.

It’s getting warm as she sets off again, the snow melting and the birds coming back out from the trees. Of course, a lot of them are ugly things – mutated, with horrible screeches, like tiny little monsters. But they’re harmless, cautious and almost loving, hopping around her as she eats her lunch.

Just because something looks like a monster, Clarke thinks, doesn’t mean it is one.

And maybe she doesn’t look like a monster, but that doesn’t mean she _isn’t_ one.

Weeks or even months later, she reaches a city.

It’s deserted. This is no Polis; there are bones piled up, and some evidence that there have been scavengers, but if anybody’s still hanging around they keep hidden. Skyscrapers lay to ruin, nothing but piles of brick and stone. Cars stop crushed and burned in the road.

There’s something terribly beautiful about it, about the peacefulness of being almost entirely alone in such a huge place.

She sleeps under the stars, out in the open. And it’s so, so dangerous – but if she dies she’ll die feeling so content, feeling like she’s finally calm for the first time in weeks, months, maybe years. She wonders what it would be like if Lexa was here, and she can’t even cry anymore. There’s just this bone deep sadness, and the grief collects in her gut, pools there cold and ever present.

*

It’s the end of the world, and you nearly tell a beautiful girl that you’re in love with her, and you’re both just _children._ That’s it, isn’t it – you’re both just kids; you should be able to mess around, have fun. You should be able to kiss a pretty girl without looking over your shoulder for a gun.

You’re in love with a beautiful girl and she’s dead, dead, dead. She’s never coming back and that’s the worst thing in the world, isn’t it. The worst fucking thing.

*

Clarke climbs the highest remaining structure, and it’s so dangerous, with crumbling stairs, but she does it. Just like she lies out in the open. Just like she falls in love with the commander of twelve armies. So dangerous. Life is dangerous. So she climbs it, and all she can see for miles and miles is forest, coming back to life slowly, like waking up from a long sleep.

In the far, far distance she can maybe see a light or two, if she squints. But maybe it’s just a trick of her eyesight. Maybe she isn’t seeing anything at all.

Atop the building, there’s a surviving floor. It’s open to the air, but she sleeps there that night. She thinks she’s been gone for nearly a year now – and isn’t that awful. The Sky People and Grounders alike could be wiped out, and how would she know? From this far away, she might taste the ash in the air, feel the heat against her skin. Maybe.

Life is dangerous, and Lexa is dead.

The next morning, as the sun begins to rise, she walks carefully down to the ground and sets off towards the lights.

*

It takes Clarke roughly four months before she begins to recognise her surroundings, and even then she knows she’s at least a month’s walk out of Polis. She’s lucky she ended up here at all; all she had was the sun to follow, and her luckily keen sense of direction. She’s coming at Polis from a different way, though, and so she comes across a settlement she never came into contact with before.

They have the look and language of the Grounders, and they eye Clarke with distrust. They take her to their leader, shove her down in front of him and say, “We found her – she is yours.”

Clarke has never been anybody but her own, but the leader of the village looks down at her with something like pity and tells them to leave. Clarke stands on his prompting, and he stands and bows.

“Wanheda,” he says. “It is an honour to meet you.”

Clarke says, “I thought you would kill me.”

“Perhaps any other clan you come across might – but we are of the Woods Clan, and we know your name well. Much has changed since you have been gone.”

“Are my people alive?”

He nods. “The Sky People still live. The war ended with a quick, short battle, before the man – Pike – was killed. The opposition died quickly, and Commander Aden was soon able to extend peace to the Sky People. They accepted. They had no choice.”

The relief is crushing, but she feels it a little distantly, like she can’t quite believe it. So much guilt over deaths that haven’t even happened; their only casualty being Pike. She would never mourn him. She could never.

“You are welcome to stay as long as you please,” says the leader. “Though I’m sure you’d be welcome at Polis, too. My name is Iro. I replaced Indra after she passed several months ago.”

“Indra’s dead?”

“She suffered from her wounds in combat. Eventually, they killed her. But her spirit still lives on within us.”

Clarke inclines her head. Iro says, “You must be tired. You may rest in our spare hut. It’s vacant at the moment.”

Clarke thinks about arguing – she shouldn’t stay here, really; out of the entire settlement, there must be at least one who wishes to kill her. For various reasons.

She stays.

The hut is small but cosy, with warm blankets and a comfortable bed. There’s a desk in the corner with a sketchbook and pencils, giving Clarke the impression that they know she was coming. She wouldn’t be surprised.

Iro comes to her when it’s time to eat, and she joins them at the fire. Some people glare at her and refuse to acknowledge her, but the majority are welcoming. They smile in a small, secret kind of way; so kind, considering what her people had done to hers. It’s a little devastating.

One refuses to tiptoe around her in the way the others do. The girl’s about fifteen, loud and bright, and she makes crude jokes the entire time that her mother tries to silence but Clarke only laughs at. She reminds Clarke so much of Raven it makes her homesick, except Rya is still so fiercely hopeful.

“At least if I trip on a branch and die,” she says, “I can say that I’ve had a talk with the Commander of Death.”

Clarke snorts at that. “High aspirations.”

“I’ve always set my hopes high, yes.”

When she returns to her hut, she draws Lexa properly for the first time in a year – the curves of her, her smile, her eyes, her tattoos. And it _hurts,_ of course it does, but in a dull way, like poking a healing wound. It hurts like a bitch, but it’s not like scraping your nails across an open wound anymore.

She almost falls asleep at the desk, drifting off, when the door clicks open. She jumps to her feet, grabbing for the nearest weapon – a pencil, _well done Clarke_ – and holding it out to defend herself.

Two hazel eyes look back at her.

The pencil falls from her hand.

“Clarke,” Lexa says, except it can’t be. It can’t be, because Lexa’s dead, and – oh God, Clarke’s finally gone crazy. This is it, Clarke’s finally lost her mind.

“Please,” is all Clarke can whimper. “This is too cruel.”

And she looks the same, too, if dressed differently. Her clothes are casual – tight leggings and a plain shirt, a jacket pulled over the top. Her hair is braided down the nape of her neck, and she looks as beautiful as the day she died.

“You’re dead,” she says. And then louder, screaming, “You’re dead, _get away from me,_ you’re dead, you’re dead – I saw it – I _saw_ –”

A crowd is gathering outside. Iro, followed by Rya, push to the front. Lexa backs up a step, eyes so sad. Rya takes Clarke into her arms, and Clarke _sobs,_ shaking, horrible sobs. The wound is ripped open again; it feels like there’s a black hole of grief in her chest.

The door shuts, and Iro says, “I apologise, I should have warned you.”

“That I’ve gone insane?” she whispers. “That I’ve finally – that I’m seeing things – did you drug me, did you –”

It’s incredibly offensive, but Iro just looks sympathetic and a little sad. “Clarke,” he says. “You’re not hallucinating. Lexa is alive.”

“But – Commander Aden,” Clarke whispers.

“She’s no longer Commander; the past Commanders are no longer with her. But by some miracle, she was discovered to be alive when they prepared her for her death ceremony, and was transferred to Mount Weather to recover in secret under Abby’s care. For many months, we did not know if she’d even pull through. And of course she could never recover her position as Commander, as the spirits were removed from her.”

 _The AI,_ thinks Clarke, but she doesn’t say it aloud.

“She didn’t tell me,” Clarke whispers. “Nobody told me.”

“She did not even regain consciousness for two months, by which point you were gone, Clarke,” says Iro. “You had left.”

 _Ran away,_ is the implication. _Ran away from your problems,_ but Iro is nice enough not to say it aloud.

Despite the news that Lexa is _alive_ – something she can’t really believe, not now – she still feels that black hole in her chest. She turns her head into Rya’s shoulder and lets out a choked sob. There’s something silent communication between Rya and Iro, and he leaves.

“It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Clarke sobs. “I don’t know why I’m crying.”

“Sometimes the best things are the most devastating,” says Rya, stroking her hair. “You will be okay, Clarke.”

*

Clarke doesn’t speak to anybody for an entire day, emerging only after the sun has gone down. She watches the fire die, the embers landing by her bare feet. Most people have retreated to their beds, so it’s quiet, and the stars are bright above her.

Eventually, there’s the slightest pressure of somebody sitting a comfortable distance away on the log beside her. Clarke swallows. “I thought you were dead.”

“I know,” says Lexa. “I was not sure if you were alive either. You were gone for a long time.”

“I wanted to kill myself,” she says bluntly. “I didn’t want any of it – I didn’t want to see any of it again.”

“But you came back.”

“Yeah, I did.” She kicks at a rock. “Losing you was devastating, but I didn’t want to lose myself, too.”

She finally lets herself look at Lexa. There’s that – that stupid _adoring_ look on Lexa’s face, like a year and a half hasn’t dulled the love she feels for Clarke, and that’s. It’s almost too much. Lexa looks beautiful under the moonlight, so regal even without her commander gear. Her eyes are soft and her mouth is pulled up in a small smile.

A tear escapes from Clarke’s eye, and she _aches._

“You’re alive,” she says, and she can barely believe it. It hits her in a wave, a hope so devastating she almost chokes on it.

Lexa smiles gently, and she says, “Yes, I suppose I am. Clarke –”

She doesn’t get to finish, because then Clarke is kissing her, and Lexa is kissing her back. She knots a hand in Lexa’s hair and pulls her closer, wants to get as close as possible, because she’s so terrified she’ll wake up and this will just be a dream.

“I love you,” she gasps, and she’s crying properly now and maybe Lexa is too. “I love you so much, fuck, Lexa.”

Lexa buries her face in Clarke’s shoulder, and there’s definitely a wetness there. “You know I’m not the Commander anymore,” she says, voice muffled.

“I do.”

“Do you think,” Lexa says, pulling back, and her voice cracks a little. “Do you think that perhaps, we could finally get that _maybe one day_? The one where we owe nothing more to our people?”

Clarke swallows past the lump in her throat. “I think – I think, maybe, yeah. I think we deserve that.”

“We do,” Lexa murmurs.

And there’s so much – so much to handle, her friends, her mother. They might be alive but she has no clue in what state, and then there’s Polis, and Aden –

But right now, that girl who once commanded an army is alive, and Clarke is so in love, and this is that _maybe,_ that _not yet._ This is the _more than just surviving._

“We definitely do,” Lexa says, and kisses her again.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> come cry with me at dontholdthiswarinside.tumblr.com


End file.
